Still Have a Lot to Learn
by Patience Tyme1
Summary: He couldn't remember how they had gotten here. He vaguely remembered her poking and prodding his stomach, but her uttered mutterings that they should probably get a move on had barely registered. Suddenly, irrationally, illogically, he didn't want to return to the camp—he wanted to build a home—a life—here.


**This is the seventh and final piece in my Bethyl Week series. As I announced in the previous pieces, this scene is associated with my full-length work entitled Settling, Surviving, Thriving, Living. However, this, unlike some of the previous pieces, is meant to provide a preview into the content of the future SSTL sequel. It is, therefore, new content meant to expand and shed more light on the tail end of the existing story, as well as hint at the direction I intend to take SSTL 2 in. **

**That being said, as always, this one-shot does stand independently and can, therefore, be enjoyed whether you have or have not read the original story :-)**

He couldn't remember how they had gotten here. He vaguely remembered her poking and prodding his stomach. Her uttered mutterings that they should probably get a move on had barely registered at the time; now they seemed like a foggy dream.

And, yet, here they stood, fully dressed and stumbling out of their Bed and Breakfast. It was just the latest location to be added to his list labeled as _theirs_, but it, much like all the others, would always mean something to him—a passing beyond a certain point of no return.

Suddenly, irrationally, illogically, he didn't want to return to the camp—didn't want to return to Eugene and his mullet and his mission. He wanted to stay here, across the street from the first Wal-Mart he had picked out a weapon for her, the first Wal-Mart he had stolen a bike from for her. He wanted to live here, on the edge of the road where he had first ridden a bike without a motor; he wanted to build a home—a _life_—here, at their Bed and Breakfast, with _her_.

But he knew he couldn't do that. It would be a form of living, he thought. But he suspected it wouldn't be enough for her; it wouldn't be the move the good man she thought he was would suggest. They still had ties to this world. Beth may be frustrated with her sister, but they were still each other's only remaining blood relatives in the world. He may not have any related family, but Rick was as much—if not _more_—his brother than Merle had been.

No, as much as he wanted to cave, to cower away here, tucked away in their Bed and Breakfast, he knew that was a way of settling, not thriving. Just as he knew he couldn't live with Joe's men, he knew he couldn't live without not only her, but the other remaining members of their family.

"We should pick up our bikes," she said, drawing his attention immediately. He had worried she may be blaming him. If he were her, he'd be hating him right now—an old man who did nothing but fulfill a cliché by taking advantage of her, moving things too fast.

But when he found her face—especially her damn blue eyes—he saw none of that. There was a flush there, possibly from embarrassment, but everything else pointed to and emphasized the joy that rolled off of her—joy that seemed to perhaps even rival what she had experienced in her time sitting at that piano in their funeral home.

_Their_ funeral home. _Their_ bed and breakfast. _Their _bikes.

"I know we can't take 'em," she added. He noticed that her smile brightened, probably at the way her southern twang always seemed to deepen around him. "We have Little Ass Kicker's bed and our bags to worry about. But the least we can do is pick 'em up. Don't want anyone who comes along to be injured just 'cause we didn't clean up our mess."

With that, she moved forward. He had a feeling he should follow her, see to the directive she seemed to be giving him, but he found himself bewildered by her yet again—frozen by the curiosity she still managed to pique in him.

"How do you know?" he asked. She turned back to him immediately and he could see, just as quick, that she understood what he meant. But she paused to answer, almost as if she wanted to give him time to voice his thoughts. "How you know they wouldn't deserve it? Could be like th—the Gov'nor."

Daryl didn't think he'd need to specify further—that just wasn't what they needed in their interactions. They hadn't needed to spell things out for each other in quite some time. He found that he really liked that about them; it was no secret that he wasn't good with words—any she could save him, he'd be grateful for.

"They could be," she said and, had she not been smiling from ear to ear, he would've been surprised at her apparent concession that not everyone was still good in this world. "But we don't know they won't be like _you_ either."

Her words should upset him; a few weeks prior, perhaps he would've interpreted them to mean that she was confirming what he vehemently believed all the others thought of him—that he was no better than the damn Governor himself, a piece of shit who had needed the world going to shit to get his shit together.

But, now, he knew that was definitely not what she was saying. She meant it just in the opposite way: that whoever came by here could be like him—a…_good_ man.

To think of himself in such a way was jarring; he still didn't necessarily care for it. Therefore, it didn't surprise him in the least when his thoughts stirred towards the safer topic of choice instead—_her_.

How did she do it, he found himself wondering. He had often thought on how she managed to keep her thoughts and opinions just so inherently…_clean_. She didn't have a bad bone in her body. She only made stands when she truly saw that she had no other option left in the world—that she or someone she cared for had been disrespected to the point where it could no longer be ignored.

She had said that there were still good people, but that didn't mean he needed to jump to take care of them. Yet, here she was, back to fiddling with the kickstand of her bike, in the interest of helping people she'd probably never meet—just as she had intended with that note at their funeral home.

"Wouldn't kill ya to help, ya know," she added, her eyes directed towards her helmet. Even without looking into those blue eyes, he knew she was kidding, as an echo sounded in his ear, of a time spent on the fence, of a time spent discussing walls. One look to her sweet smile and he knew her wording wasn't by mistake.

"Ya sure they deserve this?" he asked, avoiding her eyes as he moved to pick his bike up from where he had crashed it to the ground earlier.

"Can't know for sure," she conceded. "But it wouldn't be right otherwise. I just can't leave it, you know? I can't force someone else to suffer or use up their valuable energy just because I couldn't clean up after myself."

He nodded, although her words immediately sent him into a tailspin—dropped him off into an abyss he had no idea how to navigate.

When she had announced this idea, he could've guessed that something along this line was behind it. But he could've never predicted it went this far—that she wished to cut back on the possible suffering of others like this. He knew she was selfless to those she considered close and dear to her—but to all others?

How did she do it, he wondered once again. It amazed him, as she almost always did.

"Why?" he asked, feeling a small smile tug on his lips at the parallel this conversation drew to some of their last words spoken to each other in their funeral home.

As she parked the bike on the side of the road, she met his eyes once more, that smile still on her face. Daryl couldn't help but think she almost looked pleased at his question; it encouraged him, eliminated any fears he may have had that she grew tired of his constant questions behind how she thought, perceived and processed.

"It's just…in this world, with things the way they are," she started, her eyes going from his, but only for a moment, as she seemed to gather her thoughts. "People suffer enough as it is. If doing something as simple as picking up my own messes can even cut back a fraction of someone else's suffering…" she trailed off, but just for a moment. As he waited for her to continue, he felt as though he was sitting on the edge of a metaphorical seat, impatient to hear the end of her words. "Then why wouldn't I do it?" she finished, her smile coming back in full force.

He wouldn't have been able to anticipate this answer, but now that she had said it, it just made sense to him; it was inherently _her_—selfless and caring for all others.

And _hopeful_, he thought—so clearly, cleanly hopeful, with a strong faith in that, whoever came along, they would deserve to find the easiest path possible.

In their time apart, he certainly hadn't forgotten how deep-rooted her well for hope could be. But standing here, right now, right next to her, he realized he had forgotten what type of an effect it could have on him.

Her hope, her light—her absolute refusal to do anything but shine was contagious, even to him—well known in his bitter and dissatisfied state. Standing next to her, hearing her say she'd basically pick up road-kill if it meant even the Governor could have an easier journey—something about it just made him smile, even if he didn't want to, even if he knew it was against what everyone seemed to define as his _nature_.

"It's just," she continued, as he had hoped she would; they both knew now that waiting the other out could be beneficial to both of them—to the speaker who might be in need of gathering courage and the listener who sought to gain more knowledge of their companion. "I don't think I could stand the thought of being responsible for adding to that.

"If this is all I can do," she continued, lowering her eyes once more to the bikes. "Just this little, tiny favor…" she trailed off again, her eyes coming back to his, shiny with nearly shed tears. "Then I suppose it'll have to do as a start," she finished with a shrug, as she looked pointedly to the grip he had on his bike, which still resided wholly in the street.

He read between her lines, heard what she was really saying. It was a whisper of her insecurities issued from their moonshine shack—worries that, despite the fact that she had found her way back to him, found her way back to their entire family, she was still concerned that this was all she was good for—insignificant, albeit nurturing, contributions.

But he didn't see her that way at all. Sure, he had been the first to promote her to the head of care for Little Ass Kicker. But that didn't mean that was all she was good for. She could work fence duty better than almost anyone in the prison—man, woman or child.

Beth had proven she could fight her way through groups of Walkers in the two periods of time they had found their way to being stuck on the road since the world had gone to shit. Even if she couldn't fight her way out—even if she found herself in odds that were against her favor—she'd trick them, find her way to survive and fight to _live _another day. Her fighting may not be pretty or especially violent, but it was clever and got the job done.

And _living_? She took the cake in living. She'd could take a shelter and make sure it wasn't just a survivalist's shack; under her care, it would be a _home_.

The others had seemed to breed into her that that was an insignificant goal—that her desire to follow her humanity, her emotions and her need to live made her in some way inferior. He didn't think they could be more wrong.

But there was something else there, he thought—something hiding below the surface of those words.

Doing his best to follow her thoughts, to do as she would and attempt to perceive as much as he could from them, he thought that might not be all she was trying to tell him. He thought this feeling of inferiority might be tied to her suggestion of moving the bikes to begin with.

She didn't want to just move the bikes to help lessen the struggling of others. She was just so hopeful, so inclined to hold all of humanity dear, that she couldn't help but think that _whoever_ came along would be unworthy of having extra suffering on their plate.

That idea seemed too big to him—too complicated for his brain to wrap around. It was so endlessly optimistic and hopeful—almost even more so than anything he had seen from her before. Usually, he could follow her thoughts—even those that were especially hopeful and full of faith. But…this? He wasn't so sure he could follow her there yet. For him to really understand it, he thought he might need to ask her to explain it to him.

The very thought of doing so sent a flush to his cheeks; he didn't have the courage to embarrass himself, to risk making himself look stupid by needing to ask her to clarify this—not yet. Perhaps some day he would gather the guts; he hoped so anyway.

But, for now, he simply didn't want her to think he couldn't understand her. He had worked so hard to get to this point, worked so hard to show her that she had taught him possibly even more than he had taught her—that perception could equal power, if you just knew how to use it properly.

Thanks to her, he now did. While his latest suspicion read from her thoughts still perplexed him, he knew the former—the idea of her insecurities—was dead-on and without fail.

But words were a problem here, too, he realized. Daryl wished desperately that he could find a way to tell her that—tell her that if the others thought, as she seemed to believe they did, they were wrong. But he was no good with words; words were her expertise, not his—he knew that, and she knew it too.

But, maybe, one day, he hoped, he could learn more from her, learn how she moved from thoughts to words, learn how she could have so much hope—be driven to such selflessness for the sake of all humanity, not just those she was personally affected by.

Yes, he may have seen this coming when she had mentioned moving their bikes out of the road. He had known she wouldn't want others cleaning up her messes—that was just in her nature. But he had not expected it to be driven to such a wider purpose.

He could see the root of her thoughts; follow them back to their origin. And, yet, he would never have thought of it himself—he would've just meandered back to camp, letting the bikes lie, to become someone else's problem.

As he started to move his bike towards the graveyard of cars in the Wal-Mart parking lot and caught a glimpse of a shy smile from her out of the corner of his eyes, he felt that gripping hope of hers take hold of him. He may be able to trace her thoughts, predict some of her hopeful actions and regards, but if this instance taught him anything, it was that he still had quite a bit to learn from her.

And, in a world gone to shit, what else did they have but time?


End file.
